


could be your crush like (take you for a rush like)

by starvinbohemian



Category: The Young and the Restless
Genre: F/F, Hate Sex, bratty girls gettin' down, soooo here we are, the show won't give it to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starvinbohemian/pseuds/starvinbohemian
Summary: “Aw, don’t be jealous, Snowflake. I’m sure he still loves youbest.”Summer sneers at her. “Please. Aren't you, like, alesbiannow?”It's the tone, really, that gets to her. Mariah refuses to flinch in front of anyone, let alone goddamnSummer Newman. Not for any reason. It’s not as if she's ever stopped to wonder howSummerwould feel about this new turn in Mariah’s life— because who would care whatshethinks? Mariah is not embarrassed. Not anymore. If Summer wants to goad her about this, then she’s already months too late, so…Her smile is all teeth. “What’s wrong, Snowflake? You didn’t get the memo? Sexuality is fluid in 2018."Or: Summer comes back from Europe with an attitude, and Mariah is already too tired for her bullshit.





	could be your crush like (take you for a rush like)

_“You’re my main event_

_I hate you— that does not mean ‘obsessed’_

…

_I cannot decide_

_If it’s you I hate or something inside_

_For now I’ll stick with you_

_It’s what good women do.”_

 

 

        Mariah has lived in a lot of places in her life, and the truth is that summers in Wisconsin barely even register as _summer_ to her. Not after hours spent on sandy, California beaches or weekends spent in Palm Springs, where even nights could have temperatures over 100 degrees. Mariah can’t remember the last time she felt a genuinely warm breeze on her face. Back in Los Angeles, she would probably still be wearing layers at this temp.

        But no one else around here seems to know that. The first uptick in temperature has everyone eager to shed their heavy coats and to vacate their stuffy homes after endless months of being cooped up inside.

        And so she has a visual feast set before her of bare, if still slightly pale, skin on display. Probably because, for Mariah, the return of summer to Genoa City means lazy afternoons spent poolside at the Athletic Club. Skimpy bikinis, broad chests covered in fake bronzer, bouncy ponytails, and drink trays all around.

        She still misses Los Angeles, but this will do. For now.

        Unfortunately, for her, the long “summer” nights also sometimes mean late nights wasted on trying to drink Kyle Abbott under the table at the Dive bar.

        And failing _spectacularly_.

        It's only one of many causes she’s had lately to reconsider her life choices. Because spoiled little rich boys who refuse to order anything cheaper than _Grey Goose_ should never, _ever_ be able to out drink her. It's not _right_.

        And _yet_. Kyle’s Instagram would suggest that he’s spent the same morning rubbing shoulders with Genoa City elite at the golf course that Mariah has spent stretched out over a pink lounge chair, borderline catatonic, and busy waiting for merciful death to take her. Her thick sunglasses feel as if they weigh about a thousand pounds _each_. She hasn't moved in at least twenty minutes. It’s _bullshit_.

        And it's not as if she really cares about what Kyle Abbot is doing, like, _ever_ but really _fuck that guy_ is what she's saying. It doesn't help that he sent her a gross morning-after selfie with a random chick that Mariah vaguely recalls arm-wrestling him for last night.

        Yeah. Fuck that guy. And, okay, it's not as if Kyle _knows_ how the notification bell spikes her anxiety, but still. Who does that? Gross boys. Gross boys do that.

        The last thing Mariah wants to do is interact with another human being, and that’s on a _good_ day. She has even less interest right now, but when she hears the wolf whistles from the douchebags at the next cabana over, Mariah instinctively knows an interruption is imminent.

        She’s not wrong. Her interruption coughs rudely over her.

        And then again when Mariah ignores her.

        Her phone chirps, but Mariah just turns it over and pushes it away, as if that will make it stop. One interruption at a time.

        She doesn’t bother opening her eyes. “You lost, Snowflake?”

        She doesn’t have to actually look to know that it’s Summer. If the wolf whistles didn’t give it away, then who else would be so rude as to interrupt when Mariah is obviously _very_ busy?

        “You're lying on my towel.”

        That has Mariah blinking her eyes open (and flinching from the harsh light) to see Summer, looking particularly blonde and sun-kissed in her bubblegum pink bikini, standing over her, hands on hips, and haughty scowl in place.

        Summer has been back in Genoa City for a few weeks already since the end of _her le grand tour_ through Europe, but they haven’t really crossed paths until now. It’s not as if Mariah has been purposely keeping her distance, but she hasn’t exactly gone out of her way to see her either. She’s been kinda busy with her own stuff lately. Oh, and also? She fucking hates Summer. So, there’s that.

        “Your towel?” she repeats blankly.

        She’s not just being obtuse. Mariah really has been imitating a corpse for at least twenty minutes, and who just leaves their belongings unattended for that long? Though, come to think of it, the towel she's lying on is _bright pink_ , and, okay, actually _monogrammed with Summer's name_ in sleek gold thread. Like, someone actually took the time to hand stitch this spoiled girl's name onto this towel, so she could feel so very special about it, and Summer could obviously give zero fucks about something happening to it.

        Frankly, even if Mariah had been in the right frame of mind to notice what she was lying on, she probably still would have sat her hungover ass right on top of this towel.

        Summer notices her noticing the stitching and smirks. As if she's won a debate that hasn't even happened, as if Mariah would try to keep her stupid towel. As if she couldn't afford her own?

        Mariah's smile is mean. “You were gone so long, I’m surprised you came back for it. Busy sucking a lot of dicks in the men's room, Summertime?”

        Her face turns a satisfying shade of red.

        And Mariah's not even certain she's that far off the mark. Who really knows at this point?

        The brat that has returned sure isn't the prim princess that left. Sure, everyone knows that Summer went through a lot last year before she fled for shinier shoes, up to and including being held at gunpoint by her own husband and being cheated on with her own aunt by the one before that, not to mention the constant head-trip that is her entire family. And there’s a lot _there_ , but Mariah just does _not_ have the energy right now to even pretend to care. Privilege is privilege, and if Summer wanted to leave it all behind her, then she should have stayed in St. Tropez.

        Mariah makes a show of rolling her eyes as she painstakingly removes the towel from beneath her aching body. She throws it none to gently to Summer, who wrinkles her nose as if Mariah might have contaminated it.

        “Sorry,” she says, grinning. “I think I sweated all over that thing.”

        Summer makes a face, but she still lingers. Mariah waits, but Summer remains. It’s weird. And Mariah would love to get back to doing absolutely nothing, so she says, “Something else I can help you with?”

        She doesn’t technically answer Mariah when she says, “So you and Kyle are, like, hanging out now?”

        It takes her a moment to understand the annoyance in Summer's voice— since she usually sounds annoyed when she’s speaking to Mariah— but she does eventually get there.

        Mariah snorts. “Been cyber-stalking your ex?”

        See, Kyle is an Instagram ho, and Mariah has been a featured player in his feed lately since they've been spending so much time together. Unfortunate, but true, since Kevin abandoned her to go on the run with his crazy ex and Tessa left for her tour, and Mariah has zero other friends because everyone abandons her, always.

        Still, she's been steadily gaining followers thanks to Kyle making her seem as if she’s one of his set, one of his bright young thing socialite friends, and people have been falling for it, even though Mariah only ever posts pictures of people doing stupid shit, so she can make fun of them. And sometimes funny memes.

        “No!” Summer denies, meaning _yes_.

        “Aw, don’t be jealous, Snowflake. I’m sure he still loves you _best_.”

        Summer sneers at her. “Please. Aren't you, like, a _lesbian_ now?”

        It’s the tone, really, that gets to her. Mariah refuses to flinch in front of goddamn _Summer Newman_. Not for any reason. It’s not as if she's ever stopped to wonder how _Summer_ would feel about this new turn in Mariah’s life— because who would care what _she_ thinks? Mariah is not embarrassed. Not anymore. If Summer wants to goad her about this, then she’s already months too late, so…

        Her smile is all teeth. “What’s wrong, Snowflake? You didn’t get the memo? Sexuality is fluid in 2018.”

        Summer shifts between her feet, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than smug, as if she doesn’t really know which way she wants to play this, or exactly how mean she’s supposed to be, and isn’t that just Summer’s whole _thing_ in a nutshell? Sweet little creampuff playing at being a _bad_ girl?

        Cause, oh yeah, Mariah _heard_ about the grand theft auto. Must be nice having everyone in your grandfather's pocket, huh? Or little Summertime would probably be rotting in county lockup about now instead of sipping daiquiris at the Athletic Club.

        And it’s not as if she hasn’t heard about the _other_ stuff, too. Summer has been making the rounds, no cock left behind, and isn’t it just so cute that she probably thinks that makes her edgy now?

        “I didn’t need a _memo_. Everyone is talking about you and that… singer girl.”

        That “singer girl.” There’s no way that Summer doesn’t know her name if “everyone” has been talking her ear off about it. And Mariah’s phone buzzes again, as if Tessa _knows_ she’s being talked about, and Mariah feels some of her cool slip, but that's probably mostly about the disgust in Summer's tone.

        “What’s it to you?”

        Summer looks at her as if she’s stupid, which just makes Mariah feel all kinds of _awesome_. “We used to _live together_ ,” she says as if that should say it all.

        And, unfortunately, Mariah reads her loud and clear.

        And well. This _could_ be the moment when Mariah Copeland finally punches Summer Newman in the face.

        Somehow, she keeps herself in check. “Sorry, Princess, but you’re not my type.”

        “I’m _everyone’s_ type.”

        And that’s just… _ugh_.

         _Why_ is she talking to this girl?

        Mariah starts to sit up, and then remembers why that’s a terrible idea. Moving is too hard right now. _Unfortunate_.

        “You kissed me,” Summer reminds her with a smug smile.

        And, yeah, okay, that _technically_ happened, but it wasn’t _like_ that, she was just excited in the moment, and Summer _knows_ that, but she’s just being a _bitch_ like usual so...

        Mariah yawns. “Really? Must not have been that memorable, huh? If I’ve already forgotten about it?”

        Oh, Princess doesn’t like _that_. Summer’s mouth twists into a childish pout that is just _not cute_ on someone who’s insisting that she’s really all grown up now. Mariah can’t help her smirk, even if it gives her away.

        But then Summer is leaning over her, ample breasts inches from Mariah’s face, blue eyes boring into hers, and she whispers, breath hot against Mariah’s mouth…

        “I think you remember _just fine_.”

        And, yeah, point to Snowflake, because maybe she _does_. But she’s not going to _admit_ it. 

        Summer seems to know, though, because she’s all confident smirk and undeserved bravado again, and then she’s up and sauntering away to bother someone else, hips swaying aggressively to the beat of her own hissy fit. The stupid pink towel flapping at her side.

        Rolling her eyes, Mariah slumps back down onto her lounge chair, arm thrown over her face, and resumes her very important pity party.

 

 

~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Opening quote is a selection of lyrics from "Good Women Do" by Little Green Cars.
> 
> Title is a lyric from Tessa Violet's song, "Crush."


End file.
